Surprises
by Quillwriter
Summary: HouseWilson. Who has Wilson been cheating with all these years? Not slash...yet.
1. Chapter 1

My first House fanfic. Been watching the show since the begining, so hope I got the characters right. This is not based in any episode, just a little idea on the side. A kind of what if sort of slightly alternate reality. I don't own any of it 'cept the plot. Rated T for mention of drug dependancy (later chap.). Not exactly slash. Still debating where it will go. Give me some ideas. Please RR.

**Wilson's Secret **

"Don't get your pretty panties in a bunch, Cuddy. I-." House broke off, distracted by something over Cuddy's head. Now there was a face he had not seen in a long time. House automatically looked around for Wilson. The young oncologist was conspicuously absent. House handed Cuddy the file he held and moved to cut off the man striding down the hall. Knowing he would not be able to keep up to him with his cane, House planted himself in his path.

"Clinic's over there," he pointed.

"Get out of my way, House. I'm not here for the clinic." House did not move and the man made the mistake of trying to walk around him. House's cane cracked him on the shins. "Ow!"

House pointed again. "There. Clinic's over there."

"What do you want?"

"Someone else to do my clinic hours, but for you, I will make an exception." House's blue eyes bore into the man, who merely tossed his blond head and glared. "Alright, I want to know why you are here."

"Nothing to do with you."

"James is working. Very busy man."

"What are you his guard dog?"

"Very sharp fangs."

"I don't have time for this." He stepped around House and stalked off down the corridor. Cuddy joined House in the middle of the hall.

"Who was that?"

"Satan's right hand."

"Hmm." Cuddy tried to hand him the file. "Pretty for a demon, isn't he?"

"Just like babies. That's how they suck you in," House said ominously. He walked away, leaving Cuddy holing the folder and staring after him. He went to his office to page Wilson, thinking to warn him, but found he had turned off his pager. He never turned off his pager. House stilted out to the elevator as quickly as he could.

When he got to Wilson's floor, there was considerable milling but no sign of the devil. House made strait for Wilson's office and let himself in. At first, it looked like there was no one there, then he noticed Wilson's foot sticking out from behind the desk.

"James?" He hobbled over and looked down. James was sitting on the floor with his back against the desk and his knees pulled up. He stared about three feet in front of him, and did not look up. "I tried to page you, but-." James pulled his pager from his pocket and tossed it on the floor in front of him. House sighed. "Lover's quarrel?" he asked. James's jaw tightened. "Come on. It can't be that bad. You're too pretty to stay mad at for long. And besides, by the time he gets home, he'll have forgotten all about it."

"Glad you're enjoying this so much."

"I tried to warn you. Years ago, I tried to warn you. You never listen to me." House lowered himself into Wilson's chair and leaned forward. "Tell me what happened."

"Why? So you can say I told you so?" Wilson was miserable. House could see it in his eyes, behind the wall of glassy anger. Everything was in those eyes, always. House teased and pushed because of those eyes, to protect himself from them, and the man behind them. Once, years ago, before the cane, before vicodin, he might have been brave enough to let himself get a little lost there, but now, James knew too much, and their friendship had grown beyond any hope of getting lost.

"If I promise to be a good boy, will you tell me?"

Wilson sighed. "What's to tell? He's moving to Los Angeles."

"Leaving you behind."

A shrug. "It was bound to happen." He leaned his head back against the desk. "I don't know why it matters."

"You were with him longer than any of your wives."

"True."

"Are you really, really heartbroken?"

"Greg,"

House lowered himself carefully to the floor beside his friend. "I never liked the guy, you know."

"I know." Wilson smirked at the floor. "You were jealous." House said nothing. A long minute slipped by. Wilson tipped his head to look at him. "You were jealous?"

"Surprised?"

"Frankly, yes!"

"Well," House shrugged. His hand twitched, as though he might reach up and touch James' face, and in his mind, maybe he did. "It's your killer eyes."

"Killer eyes?" James laughed a short little laugh

And that little laugh. House shuddered and painfully pulled himself to his feet. "Scare the bejesus out of me." He held his hand out and James pulled himself to his feet too. "Drink after work?"

"Yeah." James peered at him speculatively. "Yeah. That would be good." He bent to pick up his pager.

"Not a bad ass, either," Greg comment as he walked out the door.

---------------------------

James rolled his eyes and shook his head, turned his pager back on, and for a moment, a picture of himself and Greg at a concert caught his eye. He touched it with one finger and smiled. Maybe he was less broken up about this than he thought.


	2. Glimmer of Truth

_More of my slightly altered reality._

"Do you always have to be snarky?"

"I am not snarky."

"Oh, right, I forgot. You prefer caustic."

"See, now that's snarky." James made a noise into his glass. "Did you just snort at me?" House's tone pulled a small laugh out of Wilson, and he peered up from the whiskey.

"His leaving makes it official, you know."

"What? That you're batting zero? Three wives and a lover and you haven't hit a home run yet."

"One hundred, at least." Wilson smiled. "I've still got you." House said nothing, and Wilson shrugged. "Of course, you keep going foul, so-." He left the sentence hanging.

"It's in my nature." Yes, there was a lot of the foul in his nature, Wilson had to admit. So why were they still friends? Maybe because once, there had been more to this man than there was now, andWilson loved a good challenge. House had always had that edge, that take-on-the-world belligerence, the need to be right. The infarction had pushed him over the edge, from belligerent to bitter, and five years later, Wilson was still trying to pull him back. You used to be easier to hit,Wilson thought, but he did not say it, just let out a little sigh and shook his head.

"You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would." House pointed out. "A lot better than any of the divorces."

"Divorce is so public. This is, well, you and I are the only ones who know about this failure."

"It must be hard, being the wonder oncologist."

"It is." Wilson laughed. "It really is, you have no idea."

"James," Wilson looked up from his glass. House's blue eyes were unusually serious. There was something in there,Wilson could see it was there, he just could not figure out what it was or how to get to it. "He was a jerk. You're better off."

"Why Greg, I believe you are actually trying to make me feel better. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would almost say you cared."

House leaned forward, he eyes glittering. "Surprised?" he asked in a low, serious voice.

Wilsonfelt his face pull into that serious expression, the one that came just before revelation. Unconsciously, his fingers rested lightly on the back of House's knuckles on the table. "Frankly, yes."

House sat back, pulling his whiskey glass and his hand off the table. "Another drink?" Wilson nodded and sat back more slowly, idly spinning his glass around in the wet ring it had created, and searching the room for a waitress.

--------------------------------------------

House watched him for a minute. He did care. He did. It was just so hard to find it anymore. He shifted in his seat, trying to ease the throb in his leg. His pocket rattled, and his eyes fell away from Wilson's face. It had been so much easier to find before the vicodin.


	3. Twenty Bucks Between Friends

_O.K. So here it is, Cap. 3. a little longer, as advised, and a little meatier, (I hope) As before, I own none of the characters, settings or cocept, just borrowing. Enjoy, and review, please. _

"This sucks." It had been a while since House had meant anything quite so emphatically. He stared at himself in his bathroom mirror. He was more than a little soused. The bar and the wiskey with Wilson had seemed like a good idea at the time, before he'd thought about getting up in the morning for work. Wilson was already sound asleep on the couch. House was a long way from rest. The water ran down the sink and the bottle of vicodin sat open on the counter beside him. His relationship with that bottle was more real than any other relationship in his life. People thought he did not know this. People thought he was unaware of this relationship. Oh, he knew, all right. He knew, and he despised the whole thing.

He snatched it up and dumped three of the pills into his hand. For a long time, he stared at them. Usually, he popped them in his mouth without looking. If he stopped to look at them, they mocked him. Gregory House, too strong to admit dependency, too weak to stand on his own. Something like a growl escaped his throat. He dropped one of the pills back into the bottle, the other two in his mouth, replaced the lid on the bottle, turned off the water and bathroom light and limped to bed.

There. Instead of three pills, he'd taken two. Instead of a dull ache, the pain was a grating throb. The sheets were cool against his bare chest and legs, and he remembered they had never really been warm since Stacy left. Five years was a long time to sleep in a cold bed. Instead of feeling groggily detached, he was sharply aware that he was not alone in the house.

He could go out there and poke Wilson awake, make him sit up and watch tv with him. It was his couch, well within his rights to demand company. But he would have to climb back out of bed for that, find his pants. It hurt too much to put them back on. Wilson would be uncomfortable if he didn't.

"Well, we wouldn't want to upset Wilson." He couldn't muster up any conviction in that statement. He wondered if he would mean it more if Wilson were in the room to hear it. Probably not. He used to say things like that to bait the oncologist, but lately, James just shook his head and said nothing.

Lately, House felt a little like Wilson's vicodin. That thing he needed, that he couldn't quit, but that was slowly numbing him, killing him. Caustic, wasn't that what Wilson had called him? So he was Wilson's caustic drug of choice.

"So how do I make him quit?"

"Quit what?"

House actually jumped. "Been there long?" He shoved himself up and reached for the lamp beside the bed.

"Don't turn it on."

"Since when do you like to sit in the dark and spy on people?"

"Since people started talking to themselves in the dead of night."

"How do you know I haven't always talked to myself?"

"Because I know you."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I do." House heard more than saw Wilson shuffle across the floor, and the bed sank a little near his feet. The covers pulled back, baring him to the ankles, making him shiver and Wilson's legs brushed his as he slid them under the covers.

"Cold out there?" Wilson did not say anything. House tossed him the extra pillow. At least he didn't think of it as Stacy's anymore.

"Yeah, its cold out here," Wilson muttered.

House's response was slower than normal as he passed over snark and went straight for brutal honesty. "I'd let you in but it would probably kill us both."

"Be better than slow death by caustic wit."

"So you know you're addicted then."

"Course I do." Wilson settled down onto his pillow and House somehow knew he curled on his side facing away from him. After a minute, his sleepy voice floated up from the other end of the bed. "Surprised?"

"Frankly, yes." House shifted back down under the covers. The sheets were not quite a cold as usual. He shifted again, gently, until his leg lay along James' back. It wasn't much, but he'd never had much warmth to spare anyway. He fell asleep thinking his leg ached only dully.

--------------------

Wilson smiled into the dark. Addicted to Greg House. What a concept. He'd rather be addicted to vicodin. At least there was a twelve step program for that.

When he woke, the first thing that struck Wilson was the dim light comming in the window. The drapes were wide open. The incongruity of House, who never opened up himself but seemed contenet to live and work in a fish bowl always struck Wilson. He could not even remeber the last time he had opened his own bedroom drapes. The grey light comming in off the horizon told him he woke earlier than usual. House's side of the bed was an empty hollow. Still warm, though, and the sudden rushing of water from the next room meant House just stepped into the shower.

If he got up and left now, he had time to get home and change before work. There would be no awkward posing, and he could keep Greg's offer of comfort from last night what it was. Just a friend showing he cared under the cover of darkness. It was good enough. He had no need to make it into anything more. Content, he slipped out of bed, into his clothes, and out the front door.

There was only one sly comment, days later, about people who snuck out of bed without saying good-bye. Foreman laughed, Cameron frowned, and only Wilson smiled knowingly. So it was ok then. They were where they had always been. But then he felt the blue eyes piercing him, and he looked up from where he was leaning on the conference table reading a journal. There was that nameless thing again. It stared at him from inside House's eyes, and Wilson was not sure if House even knew it was there.

"Run the tests, Foreman." House shot over his shoulder as he stumped out of the room. Wilson remained for a few minutes, staring at his back, the tight line between his brows etching deeper. Cameron was watching him, though. He left before the silence became too telling.

"What was that all about?" He asked a few minutes later in the releative safety of House's office.

"What?" The eyes were all dog-eared innocence now.

"You know what. I did not sneak out."

"You were gone when I came out of the shower. You didn't say goodbye."

"I had to get home to change. I was not sneaking out. There was nothing to sneak out on."

"Who said there was? Or is this your guilty concience speaking?"

"You sai - Augh. Forget it. I have patients."

He did not wait around for House to respond. It was all carefully calculated to keep him off balance. House had almost shown his soft side. Now he was making up for it. Think I'd be used to it by now, he mused. He did not know why he was surprised.

In his office, he was greeted by the red flashing light on his phone. Messages. Who was dying now? It was not as dire as that, as it turned out. There was one message. He answered it immediatly, in the affirmative, scribbling on the top page of his perscription pad as he spoke to the person on the other end. He ripped the page off and stuffed it in his pocket, headed for the door in search of House.

He was easy to find. Wilson approached House's office from the conference room. All three ducklings were sitting around the table in typical holding patterns. Cameron did paperwork, Chase a crossword, and Foreman was reading something. None of them, however, were very convincing in their casual poses. Their tension drew Wilson's eyes to House's office. Through the glass, he saw Greg standing, leaning on his desk his back to the door and his watching collegues. Wilson opened the door and went in, stood, waiting for the older man to say something, but he did not move or speak. Wilson could sense, even from behind, that there was something not quite right. When he finally shuffled his feet, House's head moved, but the rest of his body tensed, including his fingers, curled around the edge of the desk.

"Greg?"

"Go away."

"The children are waiting."

"Daddy doesn't feel like playing anymore today."

Wilson did not like the dull tone in House's voice, or the way his shoulders strained against his sports coat. He stepped into the office, letting the door swing closed behind him and shoving one hand into his pocket. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"O.K." He took a few steps forward. "Clearly a lie."

"Clearly."

"You're in pain."

"You must be a doctor." Wilson closed his eyes, afraid to ask the next question, or rather, afraid of what the answer might be.

"How many did you take?"

"Two."

Wilson's eyes flew open. "Just two?"

"Surprised?" House wheezed. Wilson smiled. That was beginning to be a favourite exchange between them.

"Pleasantly, yes." He walked to the desk and stood beside House, his left hand still in his pocket, his right hovering in the air just above the taught jacket between his shoulder blades.

"Nothing pleasant about it."

Aware that House did not like to be touched at the best of times, James rested his hand on his back anyway. Either he did not notice, or he was in too much pain to care. Minutes ticked by on Wilson's watch. Neither of them spoke. Finally, House straightened and Wilson's hand slipped down into his pocket. He watched Greg pick up his cane from where it hooked on the edge of the desk, lever himself up straight, shove his shoulders back and turn to face him. The blue eyes were bright, clear, not angry, then they flicked down, away, and back up. Wilson's smile came crookedly to his face.

"You're welcome."

"Wouldn't want to ruin my tough guy image." He jerked his head toward the conference room, and in a flurry of white coats it was empty.

"I thought I was the wonder doctor."

"Well, Wonder Doctor, how long do you think it will take to wean me off vicodin?"

A long breath floated out of James. Too much to hope for. "Hard to say."

"But you can do it."

Wilson nodded. "I can help." He grinned. "Bet you twenty bucks you'll thank me for it too."

"You're on."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better, you know that." Worse for who? This friendship was difficult at the best of times. Wilson suspected he had not even begun to feel real pain yet.

House raised an eyebrow. "Think you can take it?"

Wilson shook his head. How did House get inside his head like that? "I can if you can." An invitation for abuse, daring House to do his worst.

"I think I might need reduced clinic hours."

Wilson laughed. "I'll see what I can do. Don't get your hopes up." He was moving for the door, ready to open it. He stopped and turned a little. "You're really going to do this."

"You've inspired me." Wilson raised one dark eyebrow. Inspired? How? But he did not ask, just in case the answer was too frightening. He opened the heavy glass door and stepped out into the hallway.

------------------------------------

Well, this might get bloody enough to cure you of me, Greg thought. Cure you, or kill you, one or the other. It only very vaguely occurred to him there might be another alternative.


	4. Antidepressants

_As before, I own no one. Enjoy chapter four, and please review._

Everything hurt today. Everything. There was a reason House had thought to do this, he just could not put his finger on it at the moment. By now, the ducklings knew something was up. They had walked on egg shells for days, but not one was brave enough to find out what was going on. Cuddy knew, he could tell by her tacit support. He had no scheduled clinic duty for the rest of the week. And not one of them said the first word about it. Like they were afraid if they drew attention to it, he would give up on the whole thing out of spite. Which hurt, because he was not a spiteful person. He'd chuckle at that thought if he had the energy. Instead, he weezed out a long sigh. Which is when he noticed Wilson standing in the doorway.

"You really should not sneak up on a guy like that."

"Greg, I've been standing here for five minutes."

House made a face he knew was difficult to interpret. It would hide the pain, but more importantly, it would make his discomfort look more like indifference.

"Why?" he asked at last, because Wilson just stood there, one hand on hip, a folded piece of paper twirling through the fingers of the other. Wonder Doctor. House raised one eyebrow to prompt him.

"Oh." Wilson snapped up straighter. "Here. I brought you something."

"What is it?" House eyed the paper Wilson held out, then eyed Wilson. Something was off. Something kept James from looking at him.

"A scrip."

House frowned. "What? You think I'm cheating? I haven't been cheating." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his little yellow bottle and shook it. "Got plenty left."

"It's not for vicodin." House's frown deepened. James still was not looking at him. "It's for anti-depressants."

House shoved his chair away from his desk and swung round, away from the brown eyes.

"Don't need 'em."

"They'll help."

"No."

"Greg."

"No!" House stood and stumped to the window. The last thing he needed or wanted were more pills. If weaning himself off the vike meant being miserable, so what. He was used to miserable. Wilson should know that by now.

"Greg, I want to help."

"By giving me more pills?"

"Oh, come on. You know how this works. This is not so unusual."

House moved from the window to the desk, picked up the red ball, put it back, wandered back to the window, but did not look out. Instead, he watched their reflections. Watched Wilson watching him.

"It's just jitters. It will pass."

"Just jitters." Wilson shook his head. "Do you forget who you're talking to?"

"It will pass."

"What about the rest?"

"What rest?" House could not quite look directly into Wilson's eyes. If he did, Wilson might notice he was off his game. Wilson was shaking his head, moving further into the room, and House was suddenly torn. Something in the way Wilson wasn't being Wonder Doctor just then made House want to come out from behind the desk, but at the same time, something in the way he was not being Wonder Doctor made him want to keep the chair solidly between them. "There is no rest," House said, knowing it came out too defensive.

"How did you sleep last night?"

"Oh no." House waggled a finger. "You're not weasling your way back under my warm blankets that easily."

He watched a long sigh deflateWilson as he tossed the paper on the desk. "Use it. Don't use it." Wilson caught his eye, and for one second,House saw the addict glare out at him. "If you need me, I'll be in L.A. for the weekend."

L.A.? So that was it. Wilson thought he could replace his presence with anti-depressants. "L.A.?" he asked, feigning ignorance. "Why L.A.?"

"You know why."

"Thought it was over."

Wilson shrugged, stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked around the desk to stand beside House and look out the window. "He called."

"And you're running back."

"Surprised?" He asked it quietly, so House almost missed it. He asked it like he did not want to hear the answer. House hesitated, but only for an instant. He was too tired, to miserable, to be anything but honest, and soul-bearing honesty always stuck in his throat.

"Sadly, no." Disapointed? Yes, but not particularly surprised. Wilson's eyes closed, his head drooped.

"Greg, I wish -"

"No,"House spoke over Wilson's soft words, "it doesn't surprise me in the least, because you always take them back, the cheating wives, the soulless boyfriend. You know the only reason he called is because he misses the way you s-"

"See you Monday, House." Wilson somehow managed to slam out of the room without actually touching anything, and now House hung his head. That was stupid. What had made him say a thing like that? Self preservation. He was falling apart. If Wilson saw him fall apart, he would try to put him back together. Again. He rattled the pill bottle in his pocket. It was so much easier to get away with saying things like that when the vicodin smothered his impulse control and let him believe he did not care. It was those damn puppy eyes, and the little stress line between his brows that showed whenever he was worried about something. It was that and a thousand other little things, and House had said what he said because he couldn't say the one little word he really wanted to say. One lousy word.

The vicodin bottle came out of his pocket. The feel of it was too familiar in his hand, too comfortable. An easy flip of his thumb popped the lid off. If he closed his eyes, he could feel every tremmor, every restless muscle, the deep fatigue. Not as bad as when he went cold turkey, but bad enough. No. Not bad enough. He snapped the lid back on, tossed the bottle into a desk drawer and slumped into his chair. One lousy word. How hard was it?

----------------------

Wilson hated the glass walls. Hated that he could not just stop outside the door to fume and shake and feel dejected. He had to keep walking and then there was too much distance between them, between him and Greg, him and his fix. He frowned. What was new about distance? He tried to distract himself with thoughts of green eyes, blond hair. It always came back to those piercing blues. So. If it was distance Greg wanted, it was distance he'd get. L.A., after all, was the other side of the country. Wilson stalked to his own office, went inside and closed the door. First, the travel agent and a flight out of New Jersy friday afternoon. He picked up the phone.

It took all of five minutes to arrange. Then he sat back and stared at the phone a little while longer. Easy as popping a pill. All he had to do was pick up the phone and dial a number. He pulled a wrinkled perscription from his pocket and looked at the phone number scribbled on it. He spread the paper smooth on his desk, pulled out his cell, pushed Greg House out of his mind and dialed the number.

"'H'llo?"

The voice on the other end was deep, groggy. What time was it in L.A.? "Hey. It's me."

"Jimmy?" A smile passed over Wilson's face and he swung his chair round to look out at the grey New Jersy day. Wasn't L.A. always sunny?

"Yeah. What're you doing this weekend?"

"You're comming?"

"Already booked a flight." There was silence. "Pick me up at the airport Friday night?" More silence, too much to miss completely, but not enough to change his mind.

"Yeah. Yes, of course. What time?" Wilson gave him the time and flight information. "So I'll see you Friday."

"Yes. You'll see me Friday."

"Jimmy,"

"What?" Wilson tried hard not to sound annoyed at the hesitation.

"You'll be there, right? I won't be standing at the gate when my cell rings and you tell me you've changed your mind."

"Of course not."Wilson almost asked when that had ever happened, but didn't. It had happened. He was a busy doctor. He had been married three times. He had cancelled dates before. Not transcontinental ones, mind, but he had cancelled them. "I'll be there."

He hung up. There. Anti-depressants. He hoisted his feet up onto the window sill and watched out the window as the rain started. It was that type of rain that was a blanket of wetness falling from the sky. Thick, smoothering, insidious because you could barely see it, and yet it could soak you to the skin in a matter of minutes. It was the kind of rain Wilson hated. There was no comforting pitter patter, no drops falling in puddles in soothing rhythms, just heavy wetness soaking in until you thought you'd always been that way. He pictured L.A., in all its sunny glory, and wondered why he lived in New Jersey. Only an idiot would have any difficulty answering that question.

Well, it didn't matter, because L.A. beckoned, and Gregory House had been given his chance. All he would have had to say was stay. One little word. Easy. Not for House, though. Nothing was ever easy with House, and for a change, Wilson wanted easy. Not too much to ask. But then, one word was not a lot to ask for either.

-----------------------

What was he supposed to do? Beg? He could go one weekend without James Wilson hovering over his shoulder. In fact, it would be good for them both. James needed to get away. He'd done nothing but work since his divorce. An easy weekend fling would relax him. And it had better be just a fling. Next weekend, they'd do something fun. Like what? How much funcould a recovering pill popper with a limp be? And anyway, just what did the blond bimbo have that he did not? This had to stop. House got up from his desk and headed for the clinic. There had to be some hapless idiot there worse off than him.


	5. Jet Lag

Friday. Wilson left early, and once again, House found the clinic a bust. Not an orange philanthropist in sight. Not even anything as interesting as a kid with diecast cats up his nose. Only whining, sniffles and aching backs, and none of it worthy of a good bout of righteous indignation.

"Dr. House, you don't have to be here. I'm schedueled in the clinic today. Why don't you go home? Get some rest."

House turned from the nurse's station and the stack of files he had been perusing. "Thank you, Grandmother Chase. I don't need a nurse."

"No, you need rest."

"What makes you think I need rest?"

"I found these in your desk drawer." Chase held up the bottle of vicodin.

"Still snooping and spying, I see." House snatched it from him and stuffed it into his pocket, altogether too possesivly.

Chase shrugged. "Just looking out for the team."

"The team. Since when?" House turned back to the counter.

"Do you think we're blind? Something is going on. If you don't want to tell us about it, fine, but don't expect it to go unnoticed."

"And what do you think is going on?"

"I think you are trying to kick the vicodin."

"So how much did you bet? Are you just trying to get your money back by making sure temptation is not too far away?"

"What makes you think I would bet against you?"

"That is rhetorical, right?"

"You know, we are on your side. I am on your side."

"No you're not. You, Dr. Chase, are always on your own side." House picked up the top folder and thrust it at Chase, thudding it against the young doctor's chest. "Enjoy." Chase took the file, shifted his eyes a bit, trying not to acknowledge that he had stepped over some line. House gripped his cane and stomped off toward his office. He might as well go home. There was obviously no peace to be found here. He was still a little dumbfounded that Wilson had actually gone to Los Angeles. House had half thought it was some sort of ploy to get him to admit to something. Admit to what? To nothing. There was nothing to admit that James did not already know. Had House not asked for his help in the first place? What more did he want?

In his office, House pulled a mostly full bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk. He did not bother with a glass, just opened it, took a healthy swig, recapped it and stuffed it into his bag. House knew what James wanted. That was what he was doing in L.A. It should not be that big a surprise. It should not even matter. But it did. This bottle was not going to be big enough. He left the office for home with very little enthusiasm.

--------------------------

"Jimmy." Fingers snapped in front of Wilson's face and he pushed the hand away irritably. "Jimmy, what's going on? Where are you?"

"What do you mean where am I? I'm right here." Truth be told, he was wandering the halls of Prinston Plainsboro, wondering if Greg House was doing the same, or if he was holed up in his office hiding from Cuddy. Or if, against the odds, he had gone home for some much needed rest. Wilson bit his lip. He was being carefully appraised, and he stiffled a heavy sigh.

"Well, physically you're here, sure."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

Soft fingers floated over his jaw, and he turned his head obligingly. "Of course. I'm glad you came, but,"

"But what?" He pushed himself away from the couch. There was always a but with him.

"Jimmy, don't."

"What? For pete's sake, don't what?" Wilson was exasperated enough to pace across the room as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.

"That." Wilson turned his back on the heavy slumping going on on the couch. "Don't do that." There was a pause during which Wilson heard more movement, but he did not turn around. "We only have a few days. Let's not fight."

"I'm not fighting. God, Paul, it was a long flight. I'm tired."

Arms slipped around his waist, and a chin rested on his shoulder. I know. I'm sorry." A pause, calculated to be just long enough. "I know. Let me run you a bath, bring you some wine. You can unwind."

"Sure."

"Excelent." Paul nibbled his ear, and he managed to not pull away. "You can make it up to me later." He was gone to the bathroom before James fully registered the comment. Make it up to him? He was the one who'd jumped on a plane and flown across the country on just a few days notice. He shook his head and ran a hand over the back of his neck. He tried to imagine House saying something as assinine as that. He wouldn't, and Wilson smiled slightly because he could not decide if it was endearing that House thought he did not have to, or irritating that he just assumed it was unnecessary. Too much to think about. He looked back to the window, but it had grown too dark to see out. All he noticed was his own tired reflection. It made him wonder how House was doing.

It was reflex. He had his cell out and a few buttons pushed and he did not even realise he had done it until House's groggy voice came on the other end. Was it sleep or pain that slurred his words. Wilson glanced at his watch and did the math. Seven pm in New Jersey. Not sleep, then.

"Lo?"

"House?"

"Wilson?"

"Glad that's established."

"What're you doin' callin' me?"

"Are you drunk?"

"No! No, no. My doctor definately would not approve."

"House, you are drunk." Long pause. At least he was at home, and not at the hospital. "Are you O.K.?"

"Fine. 'm fine." He was not fine. Even over the lousy cell connection, Wilson could hear it.

"Get the perscription, House."

"See you Monday, Wilson." Click. James closed his eyes, tried to ignore the feelings of guilt as he snapped the phone shut. Water rushed into the tub in the next room.

"Who was that?" Wilson opened his eyes to find Paul's reflection in the window next to his own. He had not even heard him come in the room.

"No one." He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned away from the empty window. "Just checking my messages." That was one thing, at least. Paul never called him on his lies. He just shrugged.

"Your bubbles await." Wilson took the offered wine glass and pulled his tie loose as he followed Paul into the bath.

It was pleasant enough. The hot water turned him nicely pink, the jets eased his stiff shoulders and the wine allowed him to float a litttle. Paul was an expert at setting the mood. By the time the water was cooling, Wilson's temperature was well on the rise. It was a small step from bath to bed. It was why he'd come, after all. Anti-depressant.

Less than an hour later, Paul was jamming legs clumsily into pants, grabbing his shirt from the floor while Wilson sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

"Paul, calm down. I'm sorry, ok?"

"No, Jimmy. Not ok. Not this time."

James stood, trying to catch Paul's arm. "It was just a slip of the tongue."

"Jimmy, you called me Greg." Paul stopped and looked at him, his green eyes shards. "You don't do that to a guy and call it a slip of the tongue."

"Paul, it didn't mean anything." James wondered why he was arguing so hard.

"You're not serious." Paul was obviously dumfounded. "Look at you. Of course you are. You don't see it. You came here, but you call him. You're with me, but whispering his name in my ear." He pulled away from Wilson's hand. "Tell me you are not that blind. There is only one reason you have someone that much on the brain."

"What?"

"Because it's not your brain where you want him."

"Oh." Wilson threw up his hands. "Now you're just being stupid. He's my friend, Paul. He's having a hard time."

"And what about me?" Paul stopped his frantic dressing. "You think I'm not? I moved across the country for one lousy job that barely pays my rent and is over in a month. I left everything behind, my job, my appartment, my family, you."

"You followed your dream. Don't blame that on me."

"You could have asked me to stay."

Wilson let out a little laugh. "And you would have."

"If you had asked, yes." Wilson did not know what to say. It had never occured to him. That Paul would have given up a good acting job for him had never even entered his mind. Paul was eye candy. He had affairs with married doctors. He was not the type to set up house. "But it never even occured to you to ask, did it?"

What could he say? "No."

"That's what I thought." He picked up his sweater and his duffle. "Bye, Jimmy."

"Paul, come on." He was walking out of the bedroom, and James had to fumble into his pants to follow.

From the other room, Paul kept talking. "You know, I don't know what your fascination with the pill-popping, geriatric cripple is, but you could have saved yourself the air fare. I don't know why you bothered comming all this way when you could have stayed home and screwed him."

Paul was lucky. Wilson was not the hitting sort. "I am not screwing him," James was quiet, controled, furious.

"Well. You're not screwing me any more, either." He already had his shoes on and his coat in his hand. "Have a nice life, Jimmy. Don't forget to pay the bill when you check out." As if Paul would ever have paid it. Wilson let him storm from the room as only an actor could his solace in the fact that those heavy hotel doors, on their heavy-duty hinges never gave a decent slam, thereby marring dramatic exits.

He went back and slumped on the bed to stare at the ceiling for a while. It was too late to change his flight, and he had the room booked until Sunday anyway. Outside the lined linen drapes, rain began to patter against the window glass. Perfect.

He pulled the cell out from where it still rested in his pants pocket. He flipped it open and looked at the speed dial buttons. His watch beeped. That would make it eight o'clock, eleven in New Jersey. Which meant House was plastered, well before midnight. James' thumb rested on the speed dial. Should he be worried? There was no point wondering if he was worried. Only if it was warrented.

After more long minutes of debate, he snapped the phone closed, pulled on a shirt, and searched his duffel for the travel brochour that held his return ticket. In less than an hour, the flight was rebooked. He would be home by dinner time tomorrow.


	6. Drug of Choice

_Well, I think I'm done muddling with other people's characters for now. I've had a great time diverting them from their proper universe and myself from my own work, so, after this, I shall beam them home. Thanks for all the great feedback, and let me know how you like the end. _

_As per usual, they're not mine, but they've been very obliging. _

That was too much thumping to be comming from his own head, and the pillow over his face was not enough to make it go away. Someone was at the door. On a Saterday evening, someone was pounding on his door, and Wilson was out of town. He should definately not get up. The pounding stopped. Good. The door opened. Good. Home invasion. He should put up a fight. They would have to kill him and put him out of his misery.

"Greg?"

Perfect. Wilson. The weekend had gone badly. He should feel bad for the poor sop, but he was too busy wishing it had been hardened criminals.

"Wilson." He moved the pillow from his face. "You're home early. Casanova have another date?"

"No. And if you are going to be a jerk, I will take my chinese and go home." Wilson rattled the bag he was carrying.

"Wow. Chinese take-out. What's the occasion?" House looked closely at Wilson. Chinese take-out in one hand, duffle over his shoulder, and what? Something very careful in his eye. He sat up. His head lagged a half second behind the rest of him, and he could not supress a groan.

"You alright?"

"Should have got the anti-depressants."

Wilson only shrugged. He tossed the duffel on the floor at the foot of the bed and sat down beside House. Rather presumptuous. But House was too sapped to comment. "Anti-depressants don't work for everyone." Wilson eyed the bottle on the bedside table. "You maybe should have skipped the whiskey, though."

"Well, you're here now, so I guess I don't need them anymore."

"What?" The careful thing in Wilson's eye grew sharp. House almost backed down. Almost.

"Isn't that why you gave me the scrip? To keep me happy while you were off playing?"

Wilson actually huffed at him and stood. "I gave you the perscription because comming off vicodin is hard, and people sometimes need a boost."

"You just feel guilty for leaving me alone for two days."

"What are you? My puppy?"

"Guard dog, actually."

"Well you did a lousy job of protecting me."

"You know, I try." House let his eyes roam the room. His cane was not leaning on the nightstand where it usually was. Where had he left the damn thing? "But even I can't protect people from themselves." Another huff from Wilson, but not directed at him this time. "Why'd you come home early?"

The tiny line appeared between Wilson's brows. He turned from House and went into the bathroom. A minute later, he came and held the cane out to House. "Turns out three's a crowd."

"So he did have another date." House gripped the top of the cane, but Wilson did not let go. Neither did he hold too tight. House frowned at the offending hand. His left hand, no wedding ring. Not even a tan line.

"Not exactly." House looked up. Why so closed? Why protect the jerk? "I should never have gone in the first place." Oh. Protecting that jerk, himself.

"I could have told you that." House gripped the cane a little tighter. James still did not let go.

"Why didn't you?"

Without allowing himself to think too hard about it, House let his hand drop over James' fingers. "You need to be needed. And he needed you there." And I did not need you here, but he could never say that lie out loud and have it believed.

James' hand pulled away. "You know, sometimes it's nice just to be wanted."

"And where would that leave us?" If he wanted to be plain, House could be plain.

"Maybe where we should have been right from the start. Before-"

House's cane cracked against the floor, cutting him off. Couldn't do it. Could not let him be that right. Not out loud. He bent, picked up the cane, and stood. "Where'd that food go? I'm starving." He was half way out of the room before Wilson stopped him, but he could not turn around. That careful, sharp thing in Wilson's eyes must be in motion by now.

"Greg, this is not a game of chess. You can't just throw the board in the air and walk away. I want to talk about this."

"No, Wilson."

"Why?"

"I can't." His knuckles around the cane ached. He was holding it too tight. He could not let it go.

"You won't."

"I'm hungry." Two steps.

"So am I." Not for food, not with that cracking voice. Not still standing there beside the bed.

"No."

"Greg."

"Go home, Wilson."

A pause, and still he did not turn around. Finally, quietly, "I thought I was home."

Well. That was the obvious response. "You want something from me that I can't give you." And now he did not have turn around, because James was standing in front of him, his duffel back on one shoulder and the little yellow bottle in his hand.

"You know what the sad thing is, Greg? I'm still here because I care. The only reason you're here is to prove that you're right. To prove you don't care, that you don't have to care to survive. Well, you're wrong."

"How would you know?"

"I already told you, I know you."

"Why won't you quit?"

"This is my choice." He held the bottle a little higher and shook it. "What's yours?"

No. No, don't force a choice. Don't you know you'll loose? House took the bottle out of Wilson's hand.

"Thought so." He turned to go, was almost out the door, in fact, before House spoke.

"If you knew what I would do, why give me the choice."

House waited. Wilson's hand stayed on the door. His white shirt rose and fell a dozen times before he spoke. "Greg, you can manipulate me over the pills, over Stacy, over clinic hours, over a thousand other things, and I will let you, but not this." He turned around. That careful, sharp thing was no longer in motion. It was all over his face. "You've known how I feel for years. I know you've known, and I've let you ignore it. I had enough in my life. But we both knew, one day, it would come down to just you and me. You can hide behind the vicodin if you want and tell me you don't care,"

"But you won't believe me."

Wilson moved from the door, stepped close. "I never did. Everyone lies, remeber?"

"Most people don't choose to live with other people's lies."

Wilson shrugged. "Two thirds of my life is a lie. I've got my job, and I have you. And they don't always come in that order. I can live with your lies because it is the only time I don't have to live with my own."

"I don't know if I can handle being burdened by that much truth." House had to take a tiny step back. He had to breath.

"You've got your happy pills. You'll survive." Wilson waited. House said nothing. If he was waiting for some sort of capitulation, he would be waiting a long time. Finally, Wilson drew a breath, let it out, dropped his duffel onto the floor and stepped out of his shoes. "Where is the take-out? I hate cold chinese."

Wilson stepped past House, pulled take-out boxes from the bag, opened the plastic-wrapped chop sticks and sat on the couch. He stopped in the act of picking up one of the open boxes. "Are you going to eat?"

It was easy to watch him slip back into the familiar role, slouching on the couch, fumbling the chopsticks, grinning the stupid grin. But always that thing behind the eyes now. It would always be there. No more reason to hide it. It had shown itself, and they survived it, and it was as familliar to Greg as the crooked smile, the slender fingers that should be better with chop sticks. It was familliar to him as everything about James was familliar. 

Almost everything. There was just that one side of him that Greg had never explored. His own appetite fled as he watched James eat. He knew every expression, every little move, and yet it was like he'd never actually looked at him before. Careful to disguise the tremor in his hands, he set his box of noodles down. James looked up.

"What?"

"You." Too gruff. He cleared his throat. "You owe me twenty bucks."

James grinned, shifted and put his box down. He reached across to pick up the noodles. A light hand rested on Greg's knee, austensibly to steady himself. Greg stared at the pale fingers, held his breath, felt a light squeeze.

"Tell you what." The hand was gone. "If you still haven't thanked me in the morning, I'll buy you breakfast."

"Are you raising the stakes?"

"Double or nothing. You know you love losing to me."

"Optimistic, aren't you?"

"I have a very strong belief in the inevitable."

"You are unbelievable. I say no, and you hit on me anyway."

"And this surprises you."

"I suppose not."

"Good, because I know how you hate surprises."

Wilson smiled to himself. Now that he had as much as said it aloud, he found it no longer mattered what Greg did. Because, gimpy leg, vicodin addiction, sour disposition, fluid ethics, stubble, whiskey, sarcasm, all the things there were not to like about Gregory House, were beside the point. He felt how he felt. All of the prickly bits of armour Greg wanted to adorn himself in were actually pointless, because Wilson knew the truth. And it was only a matter of time before Grag knew it too.


	7. Epilogue

_A little Epilogue presented itself to me last night, and I thought I would share it. You've all been so kind in your reviews. It is just a little bit of closure for the dynamic duo. You can decide if they are talking about the vicodin or something else. Just to be clear, I still own none of the characters.  
_

"What's this?"

"Hmmm?" Chase looked up from the folded paper in his lap. "Oh. Coffee."

Cameron frowned as she put her briefcase on the floor beside the table. "I can see that. Where did it come from?"

"Wilson, I think." Chase pointed his pen towards House's office before picking up his own cup from the table and going back to what he was doing.

"Wilson?" She glanced up. "His car is not in the parking lot."

"What? So?"

"So. Its Monday morning, Wilson is sitting in House's office, and his car is not in the lot." Chase just blinked at her. "None of that strikes you as strange?" Chase said nothing, just shrugged. "What do you know?" She stood in front of him, insinuating herself into his peripheral vision.

"I found a bottle of vicodin in House's desk drawer Friday afternoon."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Chase noticed she did not bother to ask what he was doing in House's desk. Was he that despised that even she would not question it? He bit the end of his pen. Let her think what she wanted. He glanced through the glass. House was staring directly at him. Chase looked away and up at Cameron.

"You asked what I know." He shrugged. "That is what I know." What else he knew, he did not share. That he had walked into the office this morning to find Wilson already here with House, he did not mention. What they were doing, he did not mention. It was open to interpretation. Let Cameron draw her own conclusions. She would not hear it from Chase, and neither would anyone else. Let this be his way of acknowledging that he still had a job, that he was worth something to House. That he could be trusted.

"I'm going to find out what is going on."

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, the door is locked."

"They locked themselves inside the bubble?" Chase shrugged yet again. "What do you think is going on?" Cameron was studying him.

"What is a six letter word for don't care, none of our business?"

"Apathy?"

"Sure." Chase refrained from pointing out Wilson had six letters.

From inside the office, Wilson watched Cameron finger the lid of one of the coffee cups, but she turned away and began to make her own pot. "Who passes up Starbucks for office coffee?"

House sighed. "Someone who does not believe in gift horses."

"Someone who still might not be over you?"

"Nothing to get over." House looked over at Wilson. "Really."

"I know." James made a face. "What are you going to tell the ducklings?"

"Why tell them anything?"

"Greg, you will have to say something eventually."

"Says who? It's nobody's business."

"Are you sorry?"

"I'm sorry about my fourty bucks."

"That is not what I meant."

"I know what you meant."

"So?"

"No, James, I am not sorry." House looked up. "I just never thought it would happen. I'm not sure where to go from here." He pulled his vicodin from his jacket pocket. "I can't go back." He placed the bottle on the desk and stared at it.

"Do you want to go back?"

"No. But this is a whole different game now"

"We will figure it out, Greg." James placed a hand on House's shoulder. "My batting average is improving."


End file.
